Straybeck Rising

by Michael James Lynch

  Alia wiped at the blood on his face, knowing it should convince her of the truth in his words. But it didn’t. Instead she recalled the moment he had stood before that column of gunnermen. He had only got hurt because he chose to defy them.

  “We can’t carry on like this,” he said. “Surely they must see that.”

  And although she knew it would be better to say nothing, Alia couldn’t help herself. “They’re just doing their job.”

  “What?”

  “We need them,” she said. “Who else can control the workers?” The gunnermen were cruel and brutal, but the alternative was unthinkable. If people got hurt because they broke the rules, then Alia would lose no sleep over it. She wouldn’t make the mistake her father had. Ryan’s face twisted like she was speaking gibberish.

  “Control them? They don’t need controlling.”

  “Ryan, they’re animals. They go to work, they get drunk and then they fight. We need the gunnermen to protect us.”

  “You’re unbelievable. How can this,” he pointed to the swelling on his face. “How can this be right?”

  “It’s not,” she shouted back. “But back there at the fire. Why provoke them? Why stand in their way?”

  “Because no one else was.” Ryan spun her by the shoulders so that they were facing the raised platform. “Those people are going to die tonight and no one is stopping it.”

  Alia had no answer for him. She felt a twinge of pride at the passion in his words, but she couldn’t share them. She couldn’t unlearn what life had taught her. “You’ve no idea why they’re up there and neither do I. Maybe they deserve it.”

  The silence dragged out between them until eventually Ryan gave a derisive snort. “Whatever. I’m done.”

  He stalked away through the crowd and all the righteous anger that Alia had felt suddenly drained away like bathwater. She called his name, but any reply was drowned out by a fresh volley of fireworks. It was all part of the mock execution and the prisoners cringed away from the raised rifles of the gunnermen. The crowd gasped and then laughed at the scene playing out before them.

  Despite the heat from the fire, Alia felt a familiar numbness seep through her bones. An hour ago, she thought it had shaken loose but that had been a dream. She realised now that she’d never be free of it. Her fingers toyed once again with the bottle of opiates in her pocket and without a second thought she tipped one out and swallowed it down.

  Chapter 17

  Robb didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious for, but when he came to, he found himself strung up in an archway at the top of The Cathedral. It was open to the sky and he was bare-chested allowing the wind to throw rain against his skin. Both wrists were chained and his legs were bound in tight bandages and set with splints. The linen they’d used was already stained with blood.

  Footsteps echoed from the passageway behind him and Robb strained to see over one shoulder. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew he was being watched. Long seconds passed until the footsteps sounded up again, retreating back the way they had come.

  Before long, two more people entered the stone cell. Robb twisted round again and saw a small figure step into view. His stomach sank when he recognised the man that had been waiting for him off the boat.

  “Hello,” the figure said amiably. “My name is Ashgate. I asked them to fetch me when you woke up.” He looked hospital clean surrounded by the damp stone cell. “I’m the caretaker for The Cathedral.”

  Robb gave no reply. Just blinked through the silence.

  “You have been declared an enemy of the people,” Ashgate said. “Imagine that.” He moved like an aristocrat across the stone archway, hands pushed into the pockets of his suit jacket. “That, unfortunately, has made you my concern.” He reached up to test the strength of the chains that attached Robb’s arm to the stonework. Together they stared from the high window and considered the swollen grey skies over Karasard.

  “Why did you bind my legs?” Robb said.

  “You want to open the questions, do you? Well why not.” Ashgate smiled as an indulgent uncle might do to a child. “It’s because I need you to be conscious while I question you.” He pointed at the bandages that stretched from thigh to foot. “It’s just a temporary measure and I don’t think you’ll ever walk again.”

  Somewhere, far off, Robb heard a scream.

  “Now my turn,” Ashgate said. “What’s your name?” He allowed a few seconds before stepping closer. “Hmm?”

  Silence.

  Tensing did nothing to dull the impact of a gloved fist as it barrelled into Robb’s back. He grunted at the impact and flopped forwards. The chains at his wrists jangled in reply while the guard stepped back to the shadows. Ashgate held an ID card in front of Robb’s face. He couldn’t focus on the picture, but he presumed it was the fake one from his wallet.

  “Simon Puller,” Ashgate said. “214 Crester way.”

  “Why ask me,” Robb said, breathing hard. “If you already knew?”

  Ashgate didn’t rise to that. “How long have you lived there, Simon?”

  “Three years,” he said.

  A second punch landed in his back and the chains took his weight while Robb sprawled forwards, all the wind knocked out of him.

  “Give me some credit,” Ashgate said. “It might get you past a checkpoint or two, but it won’t work here.” He tossed the card through the archway and they watched it sail above Lake Stretten towards the city. On the wind Robb heard another scream.

  “What’s your name?” When there was no answer Ashgate shook his head. “Oh dear. You’re going to find it very difficult here.”

  Ashgate was true to his word. He had known about the plan to attack The Palace well before Robb arrived at The Cathedral. It didn’t stop him asking questions though and punishing the lies. Lately they had all been for the Colonel. Where would he meet you? What were his plans? Where is he now?

  Ashgate made himself a bystander while the guard meted out the physical pain. Robb was knocked to the floor and punched and kicked, but never in the face. They were very particular about that. Sometimes his chains were unfastened and he was dragged to the centre of the cell. There the guard would work him just until the pain dulled. The precision was frightening. On the second day, a huge right-handed punch was delivered to his midriff and Robb felt his ribs give way. As he rolled on the ground, cradling his side, a heavy black boot crunched down on his fingers fracturing the last two so that they bent at near right-angles.

  And so it went.

  Hours later, Robb was back at the archway staring over Karasard. Each breath he drew was a struggle and made a low whistle in his chest. The guard had a cane in one hand. The outside was wood, but Robb guessed that a vein of metal had been threaded through its spine. The first blow that lashed across his back had him clenching his jaw and pulling at the chains. On the second Robb gave up any show of control and sent his screams through the stone archway to mix with the howling wind over Karasard.

  It was hard to know how long the pain had stopped for. Time had little meaning in The Cathedral. Robb dangled limply from the ceiling and could hear quiet voices from somewhere in the cell. He didn’t even realise that Ashgate had left the room until he heard those clipped footsteps returning and watched him appear with a knowing smile on his face.

  “Well Robbert,” he said. “It seems our position has changed. Objectives have been redefined.” Outside there were more footsteps. Two people dragging a third. “It certainly puts you in an unfortunate position. Yes it does.”

  Ashgate reached up and unfastened one bracelet. Robb dangled by his left arm, his weight naturally spinning him towards the door. Outside he saw two guards dragging a battered and bleeding body between them. It was Farren.

  “Hey,” Robb yelled, pulling against the chain with all his strength. “Hey.”

  Farren turned back, eyes brimming with tears as he struggled to reach his friend. “Robb,” he yelled. The guards dragged him away.

  “Farr
en,” he shouted.

  “Robb,” the voice grew fainter. “They said you were dead.”

  Robb awoke in the darkness with a cry caught in his chest. The nightmare was so realistic that for a few moments he believed himself still to be a captive. When the initial wave of panic had subsided though, his senses told him that he was lying in his own bed and it was sweat – not blood - that soaked his back.

  It was the first time in months he had dreamed about The Cathedral and his heart was still hammering in his chest. Using the handrail, Robb hauled himself upright, only then remembering the injuries from last night’s fight. A sudden rush of pain stabbed through his body, forcing a quiet groan to escape his lips.

  “It’s okay,” Eliza whispered, “he’s home. I checked.”

  “Thank you,” Robb grimaced. “I hadn’t meant to sleep.”

  He didn’t bother to tell her about the dream. She had heard it all so many times anyway. Instead, he unbuttoned his bed-shirt and slowly peeled the damp material from his back. His ribs gave another shout of complaint but he was able to suppress the pain. It was four-fifteen. Too early to get up and too late for him to sleep. Slowly, Robb lay back down and waited in the darkness, trying desperately not to think about the past.

  Chapter 18

  Saintsday had been the worst night that John could remember in a long time. They had walked back in silence while his dad nursed his injured ribs. Ryan hadn’t reappeared and John had stayed awake for hours, waiting. It was the early hours before he recognised his brother’s footsteps creeping upstairs. The bedroom door opened and Ryan slipped quietly out of his clothes and into bed. Within minutes his breathing slowed and drew deeper until John knew that he was asleep.

  An hour after that he heard his mum treading softly across the landing and watched her face appear at a crack in the door. Although he pretended to be asleep, it was then that John made a promise to himself. He would protect his brother and keep him safe, no matter the cost. Within minutes his eyes became heavy and at last sleep found him.

  The next morning the bang of the front door woke him with a start. Fearing he was too late, John scrambled over the bed and peered through the window, but it was only his dad limping down their path in the darkness. It seemed strange that after last night, he could just wake up and go to work as though nothing had happened. John clambered down the ladder and crept past his brother who was still sleeping with his back turned. He went downstairs and raided the kitchen for a hunk of bread and a small apple. He ate the first, but put the second in his coat which was hanging by the door. After readying his shoes at the bottom step, he waited quietly and ordered his thoughts.

  It wasn’t too long until he heard his mother descend and she came into the kitchen ready for her shift at the hospital. She flicked on the light and gasped when she saw John staring back at her. “You scared me,” she said. “What are you doing awake?”

  “Nothing. I just couldn’t sleep.”

  She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  “I know Mum. Don’t worry.”

  She kissed him again and then picked up her bag from the chair. “I haven’t time for breakfast,” she said. “But I‘ll see you tonight. We can have a talk if you like.”

  “Okay Mum.”

  The door closed and John listened to her shoes clipping down the pavement. It was another hour before Ryan surfaced. John stared with wide-eyes at his brother’s face. The left eye was badly swollen and there was dried blood in his hair line.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” The tone of his voice invited no further questions and John watched him scavenge through the cupboards for something edible. He settled on the bag of oats and poured some into a pan with water.

  “You want some?”

  “Yes please.”

  They said nothing more until he had sat down with two bowls of thin, yellow porridge. Ryan opened his mouth for the first spoonful and winced in pain.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “A bit.” Ryan pressed his finger to the puffy swollen skin on his face. “I’m sorry you saw all that last night.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Has he gone to work?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  They ate in silence, the only sound coming from the clang and scrape of their spoons. Eventually, Ryan cleared his dish and rinsed out the last of the food beneath the sink. “What are you doing today?”

  I’m going to follow you and make sure you don’t get into any more trouble.

  “I don’t know.” John said. Then with a hopeful smile, “why don’t we go to the wreck?” It was an old bomb site they used to climb as kids. Ryan seemed to at least give it some consideration until his eyes hardened.

  “I can’t. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

  He was up and gone soon after and John watched his progress up the road from the lounge window. Grabbing his coat and shoes he waited until his brother was out of sight and then dashed up the road in pursuit.

  He trailed his brother in this stop-start manner until they reached the heart of the Worker District. When he went down Carragon Road, John guessed they were headed to that old chapel again. He recognised some of the buildings from when he had followed Ryan last month.

  His brother made one last check over his shoulder before approaching the large stone building and pushing open its stout wooden door. As he had done the first time, John took up position in the alleyway opposite. While he waited, he chewed thoughtfully on the apple he’d stashed at breakfast. It was soft and brown in parts, but it satisfied John’s rumbling stomach for the moment. Several times he considered sneaking closer, but decided it would be too dangerous. The best thing he could do was wait for Ryan to leave and then take a look afterwards.

  Eventually, when John’s fingers and feet were numb with cold, the chapel door inched open and Ryan emerged into daylight. His brother squinted against the bright autumn sun and John noted that he wasn’t carrying any bags or posters like last time. Part of him wanted to follow Ryan, but he knew that this chapel was key to keeping him safe. Curiosity got the better of him and he scampered across the road, pushed on the wooden door and slipped inside.

  It was dark and dusty and John gripped the first pew while his eyes adjusted to the low light. When he could make out the gloomy outline of the main chamber, he moved with more confidence between the benches, surveying what was left of the building. Wooden pillars lined the nave although they all looked charred by fire and more than a few were rotting away. He went as far as the altar where a moth-eaten tapestry hung from one side of the chancel.

  This far up the church, the stone floor was littered with debris that had crumbled away from the ceiling. John kicked at a fist-sized rock, instantly regretting it when the thump and echo filled each corner of the building. Footsteps reached him through the darkness. Quiet, sneaking steps from the tombs beneath. John froze, his heart thumping. The footsteps came closer, rising from the belly of the chapel. He ran halfway down the aisle and then dived beneath one of the pews, squashing himself against the rotten timbers, trying to slow his breathing.

  “Who’s there?”

  John recognised the voice immediately and his stomach turned to water. It was the man from the underground station. The one who had threatened to kill him. He shrank further into the shadows while slow, deliberate steps approached.

  A few rows ahead of him, there was a sudden crack of splintered wood as the first bench was ripped aside. John stifled a cry against the sleeve of his coat and waited for the echoes to fall away. Then the gentle scrape of the door sounded at the rear of the chapel. New footsteps thumped slowly towards him.

  “Problem?”

  John prayed it was a sevener drawn by the noise.

  “It’s nothing.” That was the man from the underground station. “I thought I heard something, that’s all.”

  The figure at the door walked closer and John twisted his head to peer through a g
ap in the wood. He saw a pair of gunnermen fatigues and heavy black boots clump past.

  “You’re early,” that was the first man again.

  “What’s the matter?” the gunnerman replied. “Got one of your pups here, Brynne?”

  “No, but keep to the arranged time in future. I can’t have you seen here.”

  “You worry too much.”

  They walked back to the altar where it sounded like a curtain was drawn back. Their voices faded away and silence once again smothered the church. A judder of fear rocked down John’s spine. He rolled out from beneath the bench and slowly shuffled to the edge of the pew. The church was empty, but John saw that the tapestry beside the altar was now drawn to one side revealing a narrow stone archway.

  “Brynne,” John whispered the name, storing it away. Then he crouched low and ran for the safety of the street.

  When he got home, the house was empty and John rubbed the dirt and dust from his trousers. He went to his bedroom and took a notebook from under his pillow. The first couple of pages were filled with a description of what happened last week when he followed Ryan to the underground. He found the place where he wrote about being threatened. John scrawled Brynne into the margin in capital letters.

  He turned to a fresh page and wrote the date and time. Beneath that he wrote about the chapel and how Brynne was hiding in the tombs below. He wrote about the secret room behind the tapestry and how the gunnerman had turned up. If Ryan couldn’t see the danger he was in, then he was going to have to show him.

  Chapter 19

  Even though Brynne had finally given him the all clear to use the sevener tunnel again, Ryan still had to dodge a checkpoint before returning to the chapel. The spray-cans he had been using were poor quality and now his fingers were stained with red and blue paint. If that wasn’t suspicious enough, he also had a fantastic collection of bruises from the parade last night.

  Ryan pulled his hood up and mulled over the day’s work. Brynne had asked him to keep painting the city with slogans and messages for the people. Last week, that thought had left him paralysed by indecision. He had no idea what he should be writing or what the workers needed to see to enflame their hearts. Then last night, as he wandered the streets smouldering with a fierce resentment, the answer spilled out of him.